


Broken ends

by PossiblyHuman



Series: a really self indulgent au [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fairy Tales, M/M, Manipulation, Pining, Selkie AU, Selkie!Peter Lukas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26971645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PossiblyHuman/pseuds/PossiblyHuman
Summary: Odds and ends of my Peter selkie au that don't fit into the larger story as a whole.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Series: a really self indulgent au [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968292
Comments: 5
Kudos: 56





	1. Searching and Embarrassments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter looks for his coat and has two meetings. (please note that the rating has jumped for this chapter, lol)

Sometimes, he still tries to look for his coat. He had no more obligations to step foot in the Institute, with the freedom of the rest of London at his disposal. But, he’d prefer the freedom to get back on his boat. Prefer to do so whenever he wanted, instead of asking permission like a child.

He follows the feeling that tugs in his chest, and when he realizes he’s standing close enough to touch it, he’s frustrated. It should be here. Right  _ here. _ He paces back and forth, staring at the floorboards when it’s clear he won’t be able to get it. 

Maybe it’s downstairs. 

He doesn’t realize he’d been snuck up on until there are two hands on his hips, pressing him back into a dull gray wall. Office colors, awful things. The shock is that he had been trying to be invisible. Perhaps his attention had faded, because fingers are trailing over his chest now. Peter inhales sharply as Elias’ hand dips into his waistband, and warm lips press to the side of his mouth.

“There you are.” 

“Elias-”

Anything he might have taken the time to tell him fades away, as Elias seems infuriatingly unsurprised or bothered. A knee presses between Peter’s thighs, nudging one to the side so the shorter, warm body can lean against his. The hand in his pants doesn’t go anywhere particular, thumb tracing over his hip bone. The other one slides up his shirt, pretty, well-kept nails digging in harshly. It sends a jolt through Peter, and he dips his head down, kissing Elias. 

It’s not a long kiss, but it’s a deep one, and a bit of a confirmation. It’s taken as one.

Elias’ fingers brush lower, sliding through the tightly curled hair there, before sliding back and pressing between his folds. They tease over the entrance, spreading the beginnings of a wetness Peter didn’t notice was there. Elias’ lips join Peter's, sucking his bottom lip as he teases him, swallowing a low sound from Peter.

Peter’s cheeks flush as Elias continues to play with him, breathing a bit unsteady, as Elias’ lips quirk up into the kiss. His hips twitch when Elias presses lightly over his cock, and he’s angry when another sound follows. He’s embarrassed that he’s giving Elias anything to go off of. 

“Don’t say anything.” He warns, drawing back from the kiss, head bumping the wall behind him. He’ll leave. He will do it right now.

“I really don’t think I have to.” Elias says smugly, and his free hand reaches back up to draw Peter back down to his lips. 

Peter can feel a finger slide into him the same time the hand in his hair tugs harshly. He hisses, wrapping a tight hand into Elias’ hair in retribution. It’s so hopelessly warm. It’s always so much of that. Warm. Wet. Clumsy. 

But Peter is able to remember where they are as Elias seems to get more serious about fingering him. Is he really going to do this where anyone could walk by? No. Peter doesn’t want that, he thinks he’d disappear into wisps of nothing if he was ever caught getting fucked by Elias.

His other hand presses to Elias’ chest, and he pushes him back. Elias looks disappointed, but his hand slides out of Peter’s trousers. Brushes over his cock in a way that makes it  _ throb  _ and makes Peter’s knees weak _. _

“Not here.” Peter insists, breathless.

“Oh? Why?” Elias asks, easily shifting his attentions by tugging on the collar of Peter’s jumper. His teeth meet skin there, and Peter almost melts. Almost. Instead, he closes off. Pretends he can’t feel the hardness against his thigh.

“We’re in your Institute.” 

“And?” Elias asks, sounding disappointed that the distraction didn’t work.  _ Voyeur _ , Peter accuses, bitterly. “No one will disturb us.” 

Peter doesn’t doubt that. It’s tempting, and Peter feels the prickle on the back of his neck. If they do anything here, it will be all for the Eye to see. To categorize, remember. Peter is absolutely certain that’s Elias’ plan. To use this as a meal and memorize each moment so he can slide it into Peter’s head. 

...But he’s also certain he’d do it anyway. 

“Not in the hall.” He concedes. Elias grins against his skin and pulls him into his office.

They break his lamp when they use his desk. Even if that wasn’t  _ his _ fault, Peter’s certain he’ll be the one to replace it.

\--

“...Did you see Elias recently?”

The question seems out of the blue, random from Simon. 

He’d shown up a few minutes ago, and it’s just now he’s decided to talk. Perhaps Peter will be getting a chat about how he should “ditch” him. That there were “plenty of fish in the sea, ones  _ without _ teeth.” He’d heard it from Simon before. Taken the advice plenty of times as well.

Peter shrugs, seeing no reason to lie. He  _ had _ seen Elias.

“Yes.”

“Today, maybe?” Simon prompts, looking at him with a wide smile, chin on his palm. 

He’s hinting at something. Peter doesn’t know what. He hopes he doesn’t have to guess.

He stares steadily back at Simon, waiting for him to get to the point. 

He doesn’t.

Peter glances at his hand. There’s a ring there, so Elias and he are not divorced. He can’t figure out what the tiny man in front of him wants.

...And then he notices Simon’s not looking at him. Not really. Not looking at his face, his eyes are lower. Unmoving. 

Peter brings a hand up to where that gaze is resting and feels a dull stinging ache when he touches his skin. There, right under his jaw, just past the line of hair where his beard ends. Perfectly,  _ intentionally,  _ visible. He freezes, heat rising to his face. His hand clamps down over the marks, scattering down to the collar of his shirt.

Simon laughs, that sort of delighted maniacal giggle one gets at another’s expense. Two others, in this case. “Someone’s in trouble!” 

Peter scowls, picking up his pint and draining it.

He leaves Simon laughing.

\--

Elias looks smug when Peter goes back for him, using his bigger size to try to get back at him for the marks. The embarrassment. He’d probably  _ known _ Simon was coming today, the bastard. 

Peter manages quite easily to pin Elias to his own desk, no worries about a lamp this time. You can’t break something twice in one day.

This sort of thing never really works, though. Elias always has far too much fun when Peter turns the tables on him.    
  
  



	2. Sannikov Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gertrude convinces Peter to take herself and Michael to stop the Spiral's ritual. It takes a coat.

Peter _hated_ beholders. 

They were far enough north now. Now, it was a waiting game. They scanned the waters, something Peter was reluctant enough to participate in, looking for something that would alert them to this ‘Sannikov Land’. It was dark, and he had begun to feel the chill, even through his layers and his natural aversion to the cold.

“You should put the other one on.” Came a dry voice to his side. Peter jumped. Gertrude. She’d snuck up on him, a trick he loved to do himself. But coming from the tiny, strong, woman, it was terrifying.

Peter _hated_ beholders. But he hated her the most.

It had been only a year since she had ruined his ritual. He’d still barely recovered. Having put so much energy into it, when it collapsed around him, not only did he feel the _exhaustion_ of interviews and publicity, but the punishment for failing a ritual for the Lonely. It was no laughing matter. 

To remember that he feared something he loved. It was a harsh thing to do. It was a _cruel_ thing to do, and leave him struggling in the aftermath.

Peter liked to be alone. He liked how the Lonely felt, most of the time. Peter did not like to be _lost._ The resulting crash of the Lonely around him had made him so numb that it took him months to return to himself.

He'd awoken, only to realize he’d spent all that time with his _husband._

Elias, the keeper of this Archivist. The one he had stumbled to when too numb to think anything otherwise. He didn’t know what to ask him when he’d come back to himself. 

He’d just suddenly been there. In pajamas he’d never seen before, with a blanket around him. Elias was leaning against him. He felt the oppressive warmth. The horrible, encompassing, warmth from another person. He drew in a sudden, surprised, breath, veering back from the man. Peter looked at those hazel eyes, with a dark eyebrow perfectly quirked. The calm, slightly amused, and smooth voice. “Welcome back, Peter.”

He’d left, immediately, run off to the washroom to change and wash his face. There, gripping the sink and examining himself, he discovered that he’d gone fully white. It was a bit early for that. He was a few years shy of 40. ...But that didn’t matter. Not really. 

What mattered was getting away from there, pleasing his god before it got angry with him again. And leaving Elias, leaving all those questions and emotions behind. He’d rounded up the crew of the Tundra within the week, and he was gone. 

It didn’t take Gertrude too long to catch up to him, though. The next time he’d hit port in England, nearly nine months later, she was standing on the deck. Waiting. She was dressed for cold weather, he noticed, and she had bags with her. Like she was planning a trip. He didn’t like that implication. There was someone else with her, lanky, blonde. He was similarly dressed, arms full of baggage and jackets. He leaned over and adjusted the scarf around the old woman’s neck. Fussing. Gertrude ignored him, brown eyes staring straight at Peter until the blonde man stepped away from her, following her gaze. With all the fear oozing out of him, he basically screamed “victim”. Vulnerable. Peter wrote him off as no threat immediately. 

He stayed where he was, forcing Gertrude to come to him if she wanted to. 

She did, of course, the young blonde man scrambling after her. “Peter.” 

“Stop.” Peter said, sounding more cheerful than he felt. As he always did. He lifted up a hand. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t get rid of the both of you.”  
  
The blonde man _did_ stop, to his credit. Gertrude rolled her eyes and held a hand out to him. He dropped one of the coats in her arms. She brushed it off and held it out to Peter. Casual.   
  
“One reason.”   
  
Oh. Not one of the coats. _His_ coat. The one that was supposed to be in Elias’ possession, somewhere deep, dark, and damp. Somewhere in the Institute where Peter wouldn’t be able to find it. And she held it out to him so casually. She must know what that means. What kind of wrath she was facing in return. “Where did you get that?” His voice was quiet now.   
  
“Does it matter? I’ll give it to you. If you take Michael and I to Sannikov Land...and back.” She added, as a precaution. She didn’t need to, Peter wouldn’t dare try to harm _her_. She was a tough, deadly woman. This ‘Michael’, however.

Peter held a hand out for his coat. It didn’t belong to her, in any way shape or form. He was angry with Elias, briefly. He'd been carless, kept it somewhere his Archivist could have found it. “Or! You give me my pelt and I don’t take that one to meet my god!” He says, gesturing to who he assumes is ‘Michael.’

Gertrude's fingernails dug into the coat suddenly. Peter winced, a shuddering gasp dragged from his lungs. There was a flash of amusement in Gertrude’s eyes, and Michael took a step back. 

Nervous one, it seemed. Not that Peter didn't want to do the same, escape the sharp pain that dug into his bones.

“I wonder what would happen to you if I burned this thing.” It didn’t sound like a question. The nails left the coat, holding it out again. “I don’t have time for your personal problems, Peter. We need to stop the Spiral’s ritual.”  
  
Peter frowned, rubbing a spot on his shoulder that felt the sting of Gertrude’s nails. “...Fine!” He conceded. It wasn’t as if he had any reason to let the Spiral succeed. His own had failed, why should anyone else get to succeed? “Give me the coat. Unless you want the _responsibility_ that comes with that!”   
  
He wasn’t sure not sure if Gertrude knew all of that, but the smaller woman held the coat out, pressing it into Peter’s hands. 

He hadn’t put it on, just bundled it under his arms and walked off. It was an odd thing to consider, to be free like this. He didn't consider it all too deeply.

He wouldn’t take the _Tundra_ on a trip like this. But, his family owned plenty of other boats. Ones that required far less of a crew. Michael quickly proved to be one not _suited_ for sea, getting seasick almost immediately. Gertrude surprised him with knowledge enough to keep them on track, whenever Peter needed his breaks. 

He was only human, she reminded him. 

She must have known it would make his blood boil.

Gertrude kept to herself after that, mercifully. Peter tried to do the same, but Michael seemed to take his job as one of an envoy between the two of them. He lingered, always. Until Peter was able to return above deck. He was so nervous, it exhausted Peter to even try to be near him.

Peter had produced a pack of cards when Michael returned from Gertrude one day, looking miserable enough to cry. A game seemed a bearable enough alternative to tears. Or, even worse, becoming a confidant to this blonde man.

He started talking to Peter, laughing occasionally at Peter’s fake cheer and dry jokes. Michael’s laugh was an odd thing. It was stuttering, airy. Each bout of it had a sucking pause, like he wanted nothing more than to draw it back into his body. 

Michael got a watch off of him one game. Peter won it back the next. There wasn’t much else to wager, between them, so they stopped after a few more rounds of the thing. And there was only so long one could play games. Michael started telling Peter things, worries about Gertrude. She was too old to be on this ship. She was going to get ill. He was glad she stayed down below, at least, but Michael didn’t understand why she had to make this trip herself. Peter laughed, at that. Bubbling, bitter. The Spiral was more of a threat than Peter ever was, clearly.

Michael badgered him about why he was laughing, but Peter dropped his cards and walked above the deck.

-

“You should put the _other_ one on.” Gertrude’s dry voice said again. “Seals are built for this sort of weather. You’ll be warmer.” 

“...Maybe later.” Peter replied, looking away. 

“What _is_ that coat?” Michael was brave enough to ask the next time Peter came below the deck. 

Peter shrugged. “It’s mine. If I wear it, I can become one with the sea.”

Michael looked at him, fascinated. “Why _don’t_ you?” 

“...It makes me want it more if I don’t.”

“And that’s important?” 

“It’s the only thing that’s important to me.”

“Have you ever done it? You know, become a part of the sea.” 

Peter sighed. Servants of the Beholding. “ _No._ ”   
  
That made Michael quiet, for a while. Peter got to sleep a few hours while he thought. When he woke, the blonde man was holding it out to him.

“How do you know how much you want it if you’ve never tried?”

Peter stared at him. Then his fingers curled around the coat, drawing it close to himself with a sigh. It sang to him, soothing his heart almost painfully.

-

Michael was right. It was excruciatingly, intoxicatingly, wonderful. Peter stayed in the water for hours, swirling his fins to spin under the waves and go deeper. The bottom of the boat above was dark against the light blue. It looked like a whale. Peter wished it was, instead of the duty he’d have to return to eventually.

-

Michael and Gertrude got into an argument, when they were a few days out. Peter didn’t catch all of it, he was just drifting off when Michael’s raised voice reached his ears. Gertrude’s calm tone echoed it. As he slept, they continued, and by the time he’d woken, Michael was there again. He asked to play cards, looking miserable.

Peter would usually say no, to an expression like that. Let the man simmer. Alone, with no one to care for him. Peter pulled out the cards anyway.

-

The two beholders made up hours before Peter docked the ship. Michael clung to Gertrude’s side tighter, adjusting her gloves, pulling her hat down over her ears. He asked Peter if he was coming with them. 

Gertrude looked at Peter, and Peter knew. Something about that _cruelty_ hit him. It hurt in a way Peter would respect, if it were anyone else in the world. 

But, still. It wasn’t his secret to tell.

“No. Someone has to get us out of here!” Peter said. His voice cracked, and it was from the cold. The disuse. That’s all.

-

Peter was holding back, just off the metal ramp he’d connected from the boat to this small island. His face was pressed into his coat, his _Selkie_ coat, watching two shapes shoulder their way through the crowd to approach the bright lights. 

It looked as though the Northern Lights had collided with fireworks, and each burst wriggled to swirling designs of life afterwards. The wind seemed to shriek with laughter, and screams, and Peter made sure not to look too close at any of the shapes of the avatars... _participating_. Or at any of the thousands of people standing in wonder, heads tipped so far back they didn’t realize the others around them were being killed, twisted into shapes, pretzels of people. Or art, but Peter wasn’t a big fan of either interpretation. Especially when considering his own body. There was a reason Peter was standing so far back. 

He shielded his eyes as a particularly bright burst exploded, highlighting the two shapes at the edge of the glacier cliff. Next to the altar. They were talking, he could tell. Hands were moving, back and forth. Back and forth.

...The smaller shape pushed the taller forwards just as a door opened in the spiralling, fluctuating colors. Michael didn’t even have a chance to look back before Gertrude slammed the door shut. 

There were a few moments of that continuous shrieking, bright lights, twisting bodies. Gertrude was on her way back. Laughter and screams. Gertrude was starting to run now, she broke the ranks of the sacrifices just as the world did the same. 

It shattered.

Everything. Peter felt the ice beneath his feet crack, as fractals crept over the sky. A piece loosened, and fell. It crushed a group of the sacrifices before him, the entire island began to shudder. And then another piece fell, glittering with colors that burned his eyes. Peter swore, turning around and running up the ramp. He heard screams, and then ice falling into the ocean. Plonk. Plonk. Crack. 

He finished the preparations to _go_ , waiting. Waiting. He was pulling the boat away when he heard Getrude’s boots scramble up the metal ramp. Fine. He’ll keep his promise. 

“Lukas!” She yelled, voice raspy, scrambling up the iron stairs, as if she could make him go any faster. She almost tumbled, and Peter didn’t _care._

“Shut _up_!” He shouted back. Something so much bolder than he could usually manage in front of Gertrude. “I know!” 

Sannikov Land continued to disintegrate, crash into the ocean and cause huge waves. Peter had no choice but to let most of those hit. He was too busy trying to avoid the ice. They were drenched in moments. 

Peter didn’t care, it didn’t impact him that badly. His fingers felt like ice, felt like they’d break off of the wheel under the wrong pull, but the weight across his shoulders pushed warmth into his body. After a moment, he felt a hand claw onto the arm of his coat. Gertrude.

Before long, Peter was far enough away that he and Gertrude could watch the rest of the island get swallowed by the sea. It was so bright, until quite suddenly it wasn’t. Suddenly it wasn’t anything at all, just a stretch of unmarked ocean. Peter wondered how many of those sacrifices actually fell to the Spiral. And how many, being dragged deep into the water, the Buried and the Vast claimed. 

It didn’t really matter. The claw of a hand let go of his coat. 

“You sacrificed him.” Peter said to her, after a moment. His voice sounded raspy, and he let go of the wheel, drawing his coat around himself tighter. 

Gertrude looked at him, eyes oddly calm for what they’d just experienced. _You knew I would._ They seemed to say. Cold, distant. ...Peter had thought brown was a warm color, but right now, there was nothing colder. Not even his fingers, which shook as he shoved them under his armpits. “It was necessary. He’ll be fine. If he wasn’t, the ritual would have continued.”

“What if it hadn’t worked?” Peter ventured. 

Gertrude looked at him sharply. “What if, indeed. You were going to leave me, Peter Lukas.”  
  
Peter shrunk back. Something about that look frightened him. Sometimes it felt like she could tear him apart, just by looking at him too long. 

“I’m good at stopping rituals.” Gertrude continued shortly, stepping away from him, headed for the stairs. Peter saw a barely visible shiver across her strong, old, shoulders. “Get us home, Peter.”

"Wait." He said.

Gertrude paused, raising an eyebrow at him. 

"Where was the coat hidden?"

Gertrude's lips curled away from her teeth. "It wasn't. _Obviously_."

And then he was alone on the deck, nothing but the water and the wind around him. The latter sounded familiar, light and airy like a laugh. But there was an echo to it that wasn’t there before.


End file.
